


Reflections

by darrinya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Misgendering (Accidental), Pre-Slash, accepting yourself, don't worry no one we like misgenders ppl in this fic just a rando that we hate, harry is trans bc i said so, ish?, misgendering (on purpose)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28971534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya
Summary: With the help of a haircut and new clothes, Draco finds his way.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 105





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Draco has long hair at the beginning because reality is my bitch, and I'm not gonna let a thing like canon short hair get in the way of projecting onto a fictional character

The first time Draco gets his hair cut short, Pansy is the one wielding the scissors.

The war has ended, and the Ministry cleared him of all charges. This does not mean that the _people_ have cleared him--rather, they look at Draco with even more suspicion, as if he somehow managed to use his _vast_ knowledge of dark magic to sway the verdict.

Draco does not care so much about what they think. After all, they are partly right (not about the dark magic--Draco barely _knows_ any dark magic, other than what the Dark Lord force-fed down his throat). Draco is guilty, and it makes no sense for him to walk free.

What Draco _does_ mind are the careless stinging hexes thrown his way, the witches and wizards who look at him in a way that promises blood and broken bones, and the death threats delivered to any of his friends who so much as speak with him.

Pansy is the one who comes up with a solution, as she often does. 

“We have to create something new for you, darling,” Pansy explains as she ties a sheet around Draco’s neck. “Everyone knows what you look like, and I do mean _everyone.”_

She fingers Draco’s pale locks. At the moment, they hit just above his collarbone.

“I don’t think a haircut is going to hide me for long,” Draco says.

“No,” says Pansy, “but it’s better than nothing. Besides, you _know_ what would happen if you got caught using Polyjuice or a glamor.”

Draco stares down at his shaking hands. Trivial as the matter is, Draco does not _like_ the thought of chopping off his hair. His hair made him feel safe during the war, a veil to hide behind while the Dark Lord prowled around his house, looking for fresh prey.

But Draco was never safe, not then with the Dark Lord bored and seeking amusement and certainly not now with the Dark Mark permanently burned into his skin.

“Do it,” Draco says.

Pansy starts to snip, and Draco watches his hair fall onto the floor. When Pansy finishes, Draco’s hair falls slightly below his ears. Draco’s face looks naked, vulnerable.

“What do you think?” Pansy asks.

“I don’t look a thing like myself,” Draco says distantly.

“That’s a good thing.”

“Yes,” Draco whispers, staring at his reflection. He touches his hair carefully, as if his fingers will burn the rest away. “Yes, it is.”

.

The second time Draco gets his hair cut, Pansy is nowhere to be found.

He thinks she moved to France. Possibly Spain. At this point, he is too scared to send an owl and ask because he knows she moved to get away from . . . their _situation._ He does not want to think about what would happen if someone intercepted the owl and figured out where she lived.

He thinks about asking Blaise or Goyle, but he can’t handle the thought of dragging either of them into his mess.

Also, they would probably laugh at him.

So Draco enters a Muggle hair salon where no one knows who he is or what he did.

“How short are we thinking today?” asks the hair stylist, a girl named Tessa with bright pink hair twisted up in a bun.

“Short,” Draco says.

“How short?” Tessa asks.

“Um,” Draco says, unsure of what other words to use to describe a haircut, “very short.”

“You have a picture?” Tessa asks.

Draco shakes his head, his shoulders tense. He has the vague impression that Tessa is annoyed with him, but he doesn’t know what he wants, other than _chop it all off; the sight of it makes me feel sick._

Tessa sighs and starts snipping. When she gets done, Draco’s hair is about the same length as when Pansy cut it, but with more shape and volume.

“How does it look?” Tessa.

 _Awful_ is the first word that pops in Draco’s head, but he has no way of explaining _why_ he thinks it’s awful. It just feels _wrong._

“It’s good,” Draco says.

He follows her to the cash register to make his payment.

When Tessa rattles off the price, Draco pulls out the Muggle money. Except the numbers are swimming before his eyes, and the slips of paper and coins don’t make _sense,_ and Draco can feel Tessa’s impatient stare slicing into his skin.

“I--” Draco swallows and dumps some of the paper and coins on the counter. “Is this enough?”

Tessa’s eyebrows raise, and she looks at Draco like he is an idiot.

“Plenty,” she says.

“Keep the change,” Draco says and walks out before she can respond.

.

The third time Draco cuts his hair, Blaise comes with him.

“Is Pansy still ignoring you?” Blaise whispers when Draco enters the salon, a different one from last time.

“I don’t give her a chance,” Draco whispers back. “Why are we whispering?”

“She won’t answer my owls.”

“She probably just isn’t _receiving_ your owls.”

Blaise opens his mouth, most likely to bemoan the failing state of Slytherin friendship, but Draco is already following the stylist to his chair. The stylist is a peppy guy named Aaron who talks so fast that every word feels clipped short.

“What’re we thinking today?” Aaron asks, flinging the cape around Draco’s shoulders.

Draco remembers the disdain on Tessa’s face when all he could say was _short._ In a moment of panic, Draco just points at the first person he sees, a man with hair neatly parted in the middle and slicked down.

“Can you do something like that?” Draco asks.

Aaron pauses slightly, and Draco feels something like dread rising up his throat.

“Sure thing,” Aaron says.

.

“You look like a prick,” Blaise says once he and Draco are walking out the door. “A rich white boy who runs to Daddy whenever times get tough.”

Draco stares straight ahead, his cheeks burning. He can’t bring himself to look at Blaise for fear of every secret spilling from his lips.

“Oh,” Blaise says softly.

Draco’s hands start to tremble because Blaise _knows_ now or at least _suspects,_ and Draco--

Draco has so few friends left. He does not know what he would do if he lost another.

Blaise takes Draco’s hand, his thumb rubbing Draco’s wrist gently.

“Do you talk to your dad?” Blaise asks.

“Does it _look_ like I talk to my father?” Draco demands.

“Maybe he would help.”

Draco stares straight ahead, his eyes burning. It is taking every speck of self-control for him to keep from crying, but he has no idea how long he will be able to keep it up.

“The only reason he hasn’t disowned me yet is because Azkaban blocks me from his sight,” Draco says.

.

The fourth time Draco gets a haircut, he has given up any pretense that this is a way to hide from wizarding eyes. Rather, it feels like _becoming--_ as if each new haircut is another curtain being pulled aside. 

Blaise claims that Draco looks like some edgy Muggle punk who has run out on his parents and joined a band that screams instead of sings.

“You need clothes to match,” Blaise jokes.

Draco tries to keep his face unreadable, but Blaise still sees, of course. He always does.

Blaise sighs. “I take it you want to go shopping?”

“Would you go with me?” Draco asks, trying to keep the pleading note from his voice.

“Only if you let me pick out the shirts. Your taste is worse than Weasley’s, you know that?”

.

The next day, Draco stands in the men’s department of a Muggle shop, staring at a rack of button-downs with increasing panic. 

Blaise told him that they would meet here, but Blaise is nowhere to be found. 

A _ding_ sounds, and Draco stares at his phone with dismay. Blaise just texted to say that _something came up, so sorry, we can go another time._

Draco does not want to go _another time._ A part of him fears that if he does not do this _right now,_ he will never work up the courage again. 

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Draco whirls around, his heart pounding, to find Ginny Weasley staring him down with a dark scowl on her face. 

Draco’s mouth opens and closes. 

“I’m—shopping,” he says thickly. 

_“Here.”_

Draco nods wordlessly, half-expecting her to cast the killing curse in front of the whole store. 

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks cautiously, once he is sure he is under no threat of death. 

“Shopping,” Ginny says shortly. She gives Draco a nasty glare. “For Harry.”

“Oh,” Draco says, panic still thrumming in his pulse. “How is she—“

 _“He,”_ Ginny says sharply. _“He_ is doing just fine.”

She looks at Draco, as if daring him to argue. 

Draco should feel surprised, he supposes, but the persistent thread of anxiety isn’t allowing him to react beyond basic social courtesies. Was he supposed to know? It was probably in the papers. Considering this is Harry Potter they’re talking about, it was _most definitely_ in the papers. 

“That’s good,” Draco says. Ginny gives him an incredulous look, and Draco feels like screaming. He doesn’t know what he’s doing _wrong._ “Is it—is it not good?”

Something softens slightly in Ginny’s face. 

“No,” Ginny says. “It’s good.”

She starts to walk away, and before Draco knows what he’s doing, he cries, “Wait!”

Ginny stops and turns around. 

“I—“ Draco is going to die. Ginny Weasley is going to kill him, and the whole store will cheer, and there will be dancing in the street. Hopefully Blaise will weep at his funeral. “Blaise was supposed to meet me, but he isn’t _here,_ and I—I don’t understand the sizes.”

Ginny’s eyebrows furrow, and she looks at him with an expression Draco is unused to seeing. 

Pity. 

“Sure,” Ginny says. 

.

“So he didn’t change his name or anything?” Draco asks. 

“Why would he?” Ginny asks as she throws shirts and trousers at Draco to try on. 

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “I mean, people do that sometimes, right? Luna did.”

Ginny looks at Draco with surprise. 

“You know about Luna?”

Draco doesn’t know how to respond. Was he not supposed to know about Luna? Was he not supposed to _bring up_ Luna?

“Okay, that’s enough for now,” Ginny says. “Go try them on and see what you think.”

.

After trying on a pair of dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt, Draco stares at his reflection. He looks . . .

Normal. Like any other young man on the street without a hint of tragedy, infamy, or scandal clinging to him. 

He wanted this for so long, but now that it is in reach, he had no idea how to take it.

.

At the checkout, before Ginny can pay for Harry’s gift, Draco opens his wallet. 

Ginny starts to say, “You shouldn’t—“

“I don’t mind,” Draco says. 

“I don’t need your charity, Malfoy,” Ginny snaps. 

“It’s not charity,” Draco says. “It’s—“ He shuts his eyes briefly. “You helped me. This is my thanks.”

Ginny is quiet as Draco counts out the money. Draco has never been more grateful that he managed to memorize how the Muggles’ blasted money system works. Looking like a fool in front of a Muggle was one thing--looking like a fool in front of a _Weasley_ is a completely different matter.

As they’re walking out the door, both clutching a handful of bags, Ginny murmurs, “Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Draco says. 

Ginny peers at Draco curiously. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you aren’t a complete dick anymore,” she says.

Draco laughs.

.

When Pansy returns from France, she brushes off Blaise and Goyle’s questions with a simple “I was finding myself.” She also takes in Draco’s short hair and Muggle clothes with barely a raised eyebrow and moves on with her day.

“Thank you,” Pansy says, lying on Draco’s bed and staring at the ceiling, “for not asking questions.”

“You do the same for me,” Draco says, sitting next to her.

Pansy looks up at him, her dark hair spilling out across his pillow. Draco will most likely find her long brown hair for weeks to come.

“Do you _want_ me to ask?”

Draco thinks it over carefully. Pansy is, he has to admit, the closest friend he has, despite her abrupt absence. If he were to trust anyone with the permission to ask questions, it would be her. The problem is, he doesn’t know if he would have the right answers.

“You can ask,” Draco says. “I might not reply, though.”

“Why the new clothes?” Pansy asks. “You look like a Muggle.”

Draco stares at his hands. There are so many reasons he could give her, but he doesn’t know how to begin to explain them all.

“I was tired,” Draco says finally. “I didn’t like the person who looked back at me in the mirror.”

“But a Muggle, darling? _Really?_ You look ever so . . . plain.”

“I like to think of it as masculine,” Draco says. 

Pansy sits up and looks Draco in the eye, taking his hand in hers.

“Have I had the wrong image of you, all these years?” she asks.

Draco’s eyes start to sting.

“I think a lot of people have,” he whispers.

.

The next day, Draco gets a three-piece suit in the mail. He smiles. 

He should have known Pansy would not let it go.

.

Pansy and Draco are at a bar when Pansy jokingly suggests she cut Draco’s hair again when they get done.

“We could do an undercut,” Pansy says. “I could buzz a little flower design in the back.”

“I don’t trust you with a razor when you’re drunk,” Draco says dryly.

“I’m not drunk!” Pansy protests.

“Not yet.”

The bar is loud and clustered with way too many people. Draco knows he is being paranoid, but he feels like people are staring at him and judging. This is ridiculous, and he _knows_ it’s ridiculous--for the most part, witches and wizards just ignore he exists.

But there is a prickling on his neck that will not go away.

“--just trying to pretend like she’s a man--”

There is a loud crash, and Draco turns in his seat to find Ron pinning a man against the wall.

“THE _FUCK_ DID YOU SAY?” Ron shouts.

“Ron,” Harry says from his seat at a few feet away, “Ron, it’s not a big deal--”

But there is a shuttered look in Harry’s eyes, and Draco recognizes it as the same look he saw a few years ago whenever he looked in the mirror.

Draco slips his wand out from his pocket and whispers, _“Incendio.”_

The man’s robes set on fire, and he starts to scream. Ron stumbles back, cursing. Harry quickly casts a spell to douse the flames because he’s obnoxiously good like that. For a brief second, his eyes meet Draco’s.

Draco takes a long drink to hide his face.

“Let’s go,” Draco says hurriedly, grabbing Pansy’s hand.

.

They stumble into Pansy’s flat as she cackles hysterically.

“I cannot _believe_ you!” she cries, practically howling. “You risked getting _arrested_ for Harry fucking Potter!”

“I wouldn’t have gotten arrested,” Draco protested.

Pansy _looks_ at him, and Draco deflates, dropping into a chair.

“Okay, I probably would have,” Draco admits. “But it wasn’t for _Potter,_ and you know it.”

“Nevertheless, that’s what _he’s_ going to think,” Pansy says with evil glee.

Draco groans and buries his face in his arms.

.

A week passes, and Draco has almost convinced himself that Potter forgot about the entire incident. 

Near the end of Draco’s shift at the potions shop, Potter comes in to supposedly shop. Draco resists the urge to hide. Or kill him. 

Draco would get burned at the stake if he killed Potter, but he finds this more appealing than the thought of having to _talk_ to Potter. They can both die tragically together. 

Potter doesn’t even _look_ at him—he just meanders about the store, touching everything that catches his fancy and avoiding Draco’s eyes. 

“You like working here?” Potter asks, after fingering the same vial of sleep potion for the fifth time.

“What do you want?” Draco asks in the least rude way possible.

Of course, since it’s Draco saying it, Potter will most likely find it an unforgivable offense.

Potter sighs and finally looks at Draco. He cannot help feeling like a bug under a scientist’s watchful gaze.

“Why did you set his robes on fire?”

“Because he was an asshole,” Draco says shortly. 

“Look, as much as I appreciate it, I really don’t need—“

“It wasn’t for you,” Draco says loudly. 

There’s a long beat in which neither of them say a word. Draco feels like he’s going to throw up. Or cry. Or throw himself off the nearest cliff and let the sweet oblivion of death swallow him whole. 

Potter inhales sharply. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice small. 

_Oh, oh, oh._

It’s the only word people seem to know nowadays. 

Draco can feel his eyes begin to burn.

“I--are you--” Potter rubs his face and groans. “I’m so bad at this. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know that,” Draco says, his voice wavering despite his attempts to sound calm.

“Right.” Potter nods, somewhat jerkily. “I’m, um--I’m going to go now. I’m sorry I bothered you; I just--”

“You don’t have to,” Draco says quietly.

This is a bad idea.

Draco knows full well that _this is an incredibly bad idea,_ but he also knows that he’s still going to do it.

“I’m trans,” Draco says.

Draco can feel tears forming, and he hates himself for that. Crying in front of a person he barely knows is bad enough, but crying in front of _Potter_ might as well be the killing blow.

This is his punishment for joining the Death Eaters as a teenager, Draco supposes. As far as punishments go, it could be worse, but Draco wishes whatever God is in control of his pathetic life would just strike him down instead.

“That’s—wow. Congratulations,” Potter says. He hesitates, probably because Draco looks like he’s about to have a mental breakdown. “You know, right? You know it’s good?”

“I don’t--I don’t _talk_ about this kind of stuff,” Draco says miserably, at loss for a way to explain.

He didn’t exactly _tell_ Pansy or Blaise. They just . . . figured it out and asked him what he wanted them to call him.

“It helps, you know,” says Potter. “I mean, I never talked about it, either, but my friends helped a lot.”

“I feel like if I talk about it, everything will disappear,” Draco whispers. “Like it’s just a dream, and none of it is _real.”_

“When did you know?” Potter asks.

Draco’s head hurts, and he scrubs furiously at his face. He needs to stop crying. If this is the way he’s going to react to talking to Potter, Golden Boy Extraordinaire, about it, he’s probably going to start sobbing if he talks to anyone else.

“Fifth year.”

“Oh, my god.” Potter stares at Draco, his mouth falling open slightly. “You’ve known since _fifth year,_ and you haven’t told anyone?”

“Pansy and Blaise know,” Draco says defensively. “I think they told Goyle. And Ginny figured it out.”

“But still—“ Potter blinks. “Wait, Ginny?”

“Anyway, it’s not like it matters,” Draco says. “No one will care enough to try.”

“Do you want them to?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Draco snaps. 

“It does, though,” Potter says. “Because—you deserve to be known as who you are, not who others think you are. And sure, there are some who won’t accept it, but you’ll find people who will.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. I’m the guy who joined the Dark Lord and tried to kill Dumbledore.”

“For what it’s worth,” says Potter, “I can tell you changed. And even if you didn’t—” Potter breaks off, twisting his robes in his hands. “Even if you didn’t, respecting someone’s gender is just . . . common decency. It isn’t something you have to _earn.”_

Draco doesn’t respond to that because his head hurts too much and what does Potter expect to hear, anyway? They have been at each other’s throats for so long that this display of kindness, of decency, is so beyond Draco’s understanding. He knows he would not even _bother_ to try to talk to Potter if they exchanged places.

Potter digs out his phone. 

“Can I call you?” Potter asks. 

“Why?” Draco asks. 

Potter pauses, as if sorting through every word. He says slowly, “It’s good to have someone who understands to talk about this stuff. I had Percy and Luna. It’s only fair you have someone, too.”

Draco thinks about saying no. He feels like a little kid again, offering his hand to Potter on the train, except this time Potter is the one offering friendship. Draco half-expects Potter to yank his hand away at any moment, laughing, and shout, _Kidding!_

Potter doesn’t move, and Draco cautiously accepts the phone. He types his number in, then hesitates. 

He doesn’t have to tell Potter anything. They aren’t even friends. 

But something about the thought of the only other trans person he knows calling him by his deadname is just . . . unpalatable. 

So he types _Draco_ into Potter’s phone and hands it back. 

Potter smiles at him. 

“Thanks, Draco,” Potter says. “Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Draco watches as Potter walks away. 

And something inside feels a little bit lighter.

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was frankly not my best work because there is a lot of heavy projection, so I feel like the characters are a bit ooc.
> 
> But anyway, I recently realized I was trans and got an undercut, and . . . This fic happened. 
> 
> Leave a comment below <3


End file.
